


Know You're Not Alone

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Cannon Character Death, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, anthea is perfect, but also fluff, greg lestrade is a sweetheart, mycroft needs help, sherlock needs to chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9422606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Greg is there for Mycroft, and some important conversations are had.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from One Call Away by Charlie Puth.  
> For real, guys, the eating disorder stuff really gets addressed here and will be much more prevalent in the rest of the series. Also, Mycroft's issues start to come into light, so if there's anything else you feel I should tag, don't be shy. As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any problems.

When Greg woke up, squinting blearily at his surroundings, it took him several long moments to realize where he was. Thick, maroon curtains with golden tassels parted to reveal gauzy privacy curtains that allowed faint sunlight to drift into the room. The bed he was lying on was soft but not squishy, and he was tangled in a plush, wine-colored bedspread and black sheets that, from the feel of them, probably cost more than Greg’s entire bedroom set. When he pushed the covers back, he discovered that while he was still completely dressed, instead of his own clothes he was wearing a set of dark blue, silk pajamas that hung slightly on his frame.

His feet found a fluffy, black carpet that felt oddly simple in comparison to the rest of the décor, and Greg leaned with his elbows against his knees, head in his hands as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes. He was still in Mycroft’s house, of that he had no doubt, and gradually the events of the previous night made themselves known to him, fading back into his memory like a cheesy flashback effect in a dramatic film.

_“The state of your kitchen is appalling,” Greg informed Mycroft, opening cabinets and poking through drawers, most of which were devoid of food. For such an old-looking house, the kitchen did seem to be fairly modern, which was a plus, but Mycroft could have had the world’s best kitchen and it wouldn’t have made any difference, because it was apparent that he never used it._

_“I’m not home often enough to warrant the use of this particular room,” Mycroft’s voice drifted in from the doorway. Greg looked up to see that Mycroft had changed out of his rumpled clothes and into slacks and a white button-down that Greg noticed was not tucked in. If he hadn’t seen the way Mycroft was dressed less than twenty minutes ago, he would have called it the most informal outfit he’d ever seen Mycroft Holmes wear. Mycroft continued, “The kitchen at my flat does see a little more use than this one.”_

_Greg leaned back against the dark marble countertop and crossed his arms. His own sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and the motion drew Mycroft’s gaze briefly to his forearms before his eyes returned to Greg’s face. He flushed slightly, and Greg smirked._

_“What you need,” Greg said, “is a halfway decent meal, a full night’s sleep, and probably some time off work, if you can manage it.”_

_Mycroft stepped into the room fully. “I take it that you don’t believe I’m going to quit.”_

_“You’d be right,” Greg responded. “You’re brilliant, and we both know that you’re too good at your job to let one mistake ruin everything. But I don’t think you should go back just yet. Take some time, clear your head, let everyone else sort it all out, and come back when you’re ready.” He turned to the stack of take-out menus, arranged neatly into piles by country, next to the fridge, flipping through them briefly before turning back to Mycroft. “This is sad, Mycroft, it really is,” he said._

_Mycroft looked at the floor, fidgeting with his hands and looking like he’d rather have another cigarette or his umbrella to wrap his fingers around. Greg moved towards him and threaded his fingers through Mycroft’s. “Hey,” he murmured, “look at me.” He waited until Mycroft made eye contact to continue, “We don’t have to talk about this today. I know the past couple of days have been rough on you. Why don’t we order in, have a nice, relaxing evening, and we’ll talk about some of the hard stuff in the morning. Sound good?”_

_“You don’t have to stay.”_

_“I know,” Greg said. “I want to. And I think you need someone here with you right now.”_

_Mycroft looked away again. “I’m not hungry,” he muttered._

_“Fine,” Greg agreed quickly. They could deal with that later. One step at a time._

_“I feel like I’m being rewarded for something,” Mycroft’s voice was tinted with bitterness. “What I did was wrong. I should be arrested, or at the very least punished.”_

_Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hands, but kept a mostly straight face as he joked, “You’re absolutely right. And for the terrible crime of doing your best, as an officer of the law I’m placing you under arrest and sentencing you to lots of cuddles.”_

_Mycroft laughed in spite of himself. He slouched forward, and Greg dropped Mycroft’s hands to wrap his arms around him. He could feel Mycroft shaking ever so slightly, and it took him a moment to realize the other man was crying. He pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s temple and pulled him closer. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “It’s alright, I’m here.”_

_It took a little coaxing to get Mycroft into the living room (at least, Greg was pretty sure that was what it was. The house had to be at least three floors and there were a lot of rooms he hadn’t looked at yet), but once Greg set up a film, it took almost no effort to get Mycroft to curl up on the sofa with him. Greg kept his arms around Mycroft as much as he could, stroking his hair and his back, knowing that Mycroft probably craved physical affection but was too shy or too proud to ask for it._

_It was nearing midnight before Mycroft shook himself out of a doze and mumbled, “I really should be getting to bed.”_

_Greg had been close to sleep himself, but he forced himself to remain awake enough to say, “That’s probably a good idea.” He hesitated, not wanting to push Mycroft too far. “I’ll…I’ll sleep on the couch then, shall I?”_

_“Nonsense,” Mycroft shook his head. “There are plenty of guest bedrooms. You can use one of those. There should be a spare set of pajamas in the one upstairs. First door on the left.”_

_“Right.” Greg hesitated for a moment, and then pressed a brief kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “I’ll see you in the morning.”_

_“Goodnight, Gregory.”_

So they hadn’t slept together, then. That was good, Greg thought. If they’d had sex, or even just slept in the same bed, he would have felt like he was taking advantage. Mycroft wasn’t in a good place. The last thing he needed was Greg pushing him too far before he was ready.

Greg had done stakeouts before. He’d babysat victims and potential victims as part of his job. It wasn’t massively unusual for him to spend the night in an unfamiliar house for the sake of helping someone, although actually getting to sleep there was a bit out of the ordinary. But this wasn’t just some case. This was _Mycroft_. This was the man Greg had been pining after needing support, needing love and affection. He couldn’t apply the same detachment that made those other cases bearable here.

Looking around the room, Greg found his clothes from the previous day folded neatly on a chair in the corner, his phone resting on top of the pile. He walked over to it and picked it up, but the screen just flashed the empty battery sign at him. Greg sighed and put it back down. He should have thought ahead before he’d shown up, but to be fair, he hadn’t expected to stay the night.

Still pajama-clad and in bare feet, Greg wandered into the hall. In the distance there were the faint sounds of a shower running, and Greg’s thoughts slid to an image of Mycroft in the shower before he forced his mind out of the gutter. _Not taking advantage_ , he reminded himself. If he happened to wander in the direction of the sound, well, that was just because the kitchen was that way.

As he moved past the door where the shower sounds were coming from, they abruptly stopped, and a moment later the door opened to reveal Mycroft in a dressing gown, dark auburn hair plastered to his forehead. Both men froze momentarily, and Greg felt his mouth open without his permission. He closed it quickly, and tried to look like he wasn't staring.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, clearing his throat. “I wasn't aware that you were awake.” Greg wondered if the flush coloring Mycroft's cheeks and disappearing into the neckline of his crimson dressing gown was embarrassment or just leftover heat from his shower.

It took him a minute to register that Mycroft had spoken. “Uh, yeah,” he responded. “I mean, I wasn't. I just got up.” _You're smoother than this, Lestrade_ , he groaned inwardly, _stop acting like a flustered teenager_. “I was about to go downstairs, see about breakfast.”

“I see.”

“Right,” Greg said. “I'll just...do that then.” He backed away several steps before turning and fleeing down the stairs, internally cursing himself for acting like an idiot.

When Greg heard Mycroft’s footsteps coming down the stairs a few minutes later, Greg called out to him, “You don't have eggs, bread, or milk. I thought everybody kept at least that much.”

“I could call Anthea, if you'd like,” Mycroft offered. “I’m sure she wouldn't mind doing the shopping.”

Greg turned to look at him, and saw that Mycroft was fully dressed, minus the suit jacket but including the waistcoat. “Bit dressy for first thing in the morning, innit?” he commented.

“One should always look one's best for company,” Mycroft answered, but Greg could tell his heart wasn't entirely in it.

“Phone Anthea, then,” he said. “I'd do it, but my phone's dead.”

Mycroft unlocked and handed his phone over to Greg without a word. Greg was a little taken aback. He'd expected Mycroft to make the call, and he was aware of the level of trust it took Mycroft to allow Greg to use his phone. Greg wouldn’t be surprised if there were highly classified state secrets on the device. He scrolled through the contacts, briefly because there were so few of them, which, he supposed, made sense. Technology could be hacked. Mycroft probably had a notebook with all the important phone numbers and addresses under lock and key somewhere.

Of the handful of numbers actually in the contacts, none claimed to be for “Anthea,” but one did just have “A” as the name. Greg hit that one and held it up to Mycroft, “This her?” Mycroft nodded, so Greg dialed the number.

It took less than one ring for the other end to pick up and a feminine voice to answer, “Hello?”

“Yeah, hi. This is Greg...Lestrade,” Greg said. “Is this Anthea?” He didn't want to just assume, and the last thing he wanted to do was risk starting an international incident after everything Mycroft had been through.

“Yes,” came the reply. “Why do you have Mr. Holmes's phone?”

Greg glanced over at Mycroft, who was watching him with mild interest. Greg couldn’t determine how much of it was feigned. “Mycroft let me borrow his phone,” he answered honestly. “I was wondering if you could pick up a few things? There’s pretty much no food here, and Mycroft said it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“So you’re actually getting him to eat, then?” Anthea sounded relieved. “I’ve kept an eye on him the past couple days, but I couldn’t get more than a few cups of tea into him.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at Mycroft, whose expression morphed into one of concern. “Not last night, no,” he said into the phone, “but I was going to make him breakfast this morning.”

“Don’t let him give you no for an answer,” Anthea advised. “As much as I’m his friend, I do work for him, so he has an easy way of brushing me off. With you…you said your name was Lestrade?”

“…yes,” Greg drew the word out a bit, wondering where she was going with it.

Anthea made a soft noise of understanding on the other end of the line. “The Detective Inspector. Good, it’s good you’re with him. Don’t let him say no. He might actually listen to you.”

“So…you’ll do the shopping, then?” Greg had to clarify.

“Already on my way,” Anthea said cheerfully. “I’ll drop by shortly.” Before Greg could formulate any sort of reply, the call ended.

Greg hesitated as he handed the phone back to Mycroft, who raised one eyebrow. With that prompting, Greg said, “So. Is there something you want to tell me?”

Mycroft looked surprised and a touch confused. Slowly, he said, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

There was an island in the kitchen, an extra length of counter space that separated Greg from Mycroft. Greg leaned against it casually, and kept his voice equally casual when he said, “It’s just…you don’t keep any food at your house. In the, what’s it been, ten years, that I’ve known you I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you eat anything, and my conversation with Anthea just indicated that it’s not strictly to do with me. So, let’s try this again. Is there something you want to tell me?”

Mycroft looked away before Greg finished the first sentence. He remained silent for a long time after Greg finished, and Greg was tempted to say something just to break the tension hanging in the room like a cloud of cigarette smoke. He resisted the urge, waiting for Mycroft to make the next move.

“It’s not as big a deal as you’re making it out to be,” Mycroft finally said. “I’m a busy man, and occasionally I forget to eat. It’s not such a horrible thing, and besides, watching one’s figure never hurt anyone.”

Greg leaned back and crossed his arms, raising his eyebrows in what he hoped was an expression that conveyed that Greg was not about to take Mycroft’s bullshit. “Anthea just told me you haven’t eaten anything in the past few days. I’m assuming she meant at least since Eurus got locked back up, but for all I know it could be longer. That’s not ‘forgetting to eat,’ Mycroft, that’s intentional starvation.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Gregory, I’ve been dealing with a great deal of trauma on both my own behalf and my family’s,” Mycroft said icily. Any semblance of the man Greg had seen last night was gone, replaced by the stone-cold façade Mycroft had crafted for himself. “Forgive me if I haven’t felt much like eating.”

“It still doesn’t explain every meal I’ve ever had with you,” Greg wouldn’t back down. “Nearly ten years of lunches and dinners, and you always order for both of us, but you never touch yours. For a while I just thought you were worried about poison or something, but now I’m pretty sure that’s not what it is.”

“I’m fine, Gregory.”

“Does Sherlock know?” That got a pause, and a crack appeared in Mycroft’s mask. Greg pressed that spot harder. “Does Sherlock know what you’re doing to yourself? Does he know that his big brother, who lectures him about taking care of his body, of not pumping it full of drugs and shit, is just as bad as he is?”

“No!” Mycroft burst. He turned his back on Greg, who instantly felt bad. He moved closer to Mycroft, carefully reaching out and smoothing his hands down Mycroft’s arms.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I know this is upsetting, but I’m really worried about you.”

Mycroft’s bitter laugh chilled Greg. “Worried about me,” he repeated softly. “If this is what it feels like when someone worries about you, it’s no wonder Sherlock hates me interfering.”

Greg suddenly had an image of Mycroft as a king, high up in his tower issuing decrees down to his people. Sure, he had all the power he could want and then some, but there was no one up there with him, looking out for him. It had to be a very lonely life. “Deep down, he knows it’s for the best,” Greg ventured, “and I think you do too.”

There was another pause, and then Mycroft turned to face Greg, although he couldn’t meet the policeman’s eyes. “Anthea’s the only one who knows,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve, ah, I’ve been to two different recovery centers in the past, but neither of them helped for very long. I couldn’t…I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mummy, and I certainly couldn’t tell Sherlock. I didn’t want to see the pity in their eyes.”

“Christ, Mycroft,” Greg murmured. He reached out, taking Mycroft’s hands and squeezing gently. “I’m glad you told me.” It was under a great deal of pressure, yes, but it was a first step.

“I never wanted you to see me so weak,” Mycroft sounded close to tears.

“Hey, hey,” Greg said. “You’ve tortured yourself and carried the weight of the world on your shoulders. You’re one of the strongest men I know, and it’s okay to be weak every once in a while. It makes you human, that’s all.”

Mycroft raised his face, and Greg could see there was something haunting in his eyes, but before Mycroft could speak, the doorbell rang. He looked away again.

“That’s probably Anthea,” Greg said when it became apparent Mycroft wasn’t going to say anything. “I’ll get it.” He left Mycroft standing in the kitchen, feeling a tightness in his chest that hadn’t been there before.

It was indeed Anthea at the door, laden with shopping bags. “Thanks,” Greg told her gratefully, lifting them out of her arms.

She raised one eyebrow and smirked, looking incredibly like her boss as she said, “Nice pajamas.”

Greg blushed, abruptly remembering that he was still wearing them. Anthea took pity on him and said, “I took the liberty of stopping by your flat and picking up a few things for you. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Um…thanks?” Greg paused, and then asked, “Do I want to know how you got in?”

“Mycroft has a key.”

“Right. Of course.”

Anthea peered around him and into the hall beyond the doorway. “How is he?”

Greg took a deep breath, “Well, he’s not great. I think, given time, he’ll be okay, but in the meantime he’s going to need a lot of support from a lot of different people, not just me.”

She nodded. “If you ever need me, don’t hesitate to call.” She offered Greg a business card with her number, and Greg shifted the bags so he could take it.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked.

Anthea shook her head. “Let me know when you leave and I’ll check on him later. The last thing he needs is to feel like we’re ganging up on him.”

“Good point,” Greg agreed. “Thanks again for all your help.”

“I’ll be seeing you.” She smiled and turned on her heel, climbing back into the car waiting for her. With some difficulty, Greg shut the door behind him, and he returned to the kitchen.

Mycroft hadn’t moved, but when Greg set the shopping bags down on the counter, he began to help put the items away. Greg set the items Anthea had taken from his flat off to the side and began to put together what he needed to make breakfast. “I’m thinking omelets,” he told Mycroft conversationally. “Probably some toast with them as well. Does that sound alright?”

After the briefest of hesitations, Mycroft nodded. “That will be fine.”

The rest of the cooking was done in silence, and save for a soft “thank you” from Mycroft, so was the meal. Greg watched him eat. Mycroft took tiny bites with long pauses between, but slowly the omelet and a piece of toast disappeared from his plate. Greg stood to clear the plates and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead.

“Thank you,” he murmured softly, and Mycroft closed his eyes. Greg rinsed off the plates and left them in the sink to soak. “It alright if I use your shower?” he asked Mycroft, gathering up his things.

“Of course,” Mycroft responded. “I assume you remember where it is?”

Greg nodded. Leaving Mycroft in the kitchen, he returned to the guest room he’d slept in. Anthea had brought his phone charger, so he plugged his phone into the wall and left it to charge. The change of clothes he brought with him to the bathroom, no longer full of steam but still slightly warmer than the other rooms. He set his clothes on the counter as he examined the shower. It was fancier than he expected, with several extra knobs that he could only guess the purpose of.

With a little bit of experimentation, Greg managed to get the shower running at a suitable temperature, and he bathed quickly, doing his best to ignore the fact that he was naked in Mycroft Holmes’s bathroom. When he stepped out of the shower he toweled off with one of several towels lining a rack, noting with only a hint of disbelief that they were _monogramed_. He laughed to himself as he got dressed, leaving the top few buttons of his shirt undone and running his fingers through his now-thoroughly spiked silver hair. Getting it to lie flat again wasn’t at the top of his priority list. It would settle again on its own.

There was no sign of Mycroft in the hallway, which Greg supposed he should be thankful for. He returned to the guest room and checked his phone. There were a handful of missed calls from work and one from John, in addition to a series of missed texts from Sherlock. He looked at the texts first, which read:

Have you seen him yet? – SH

John doesn’t know why I bothered to send you. Should I tell him about your attachment to my brother? – SH

I didn’t tell him, by the way. I suspect you’ll want that kept private. – SH

Has something happened? Lestrade, if you don’t answer me... – SH

I’m going to assume your phone has died. You wouldn’t ignore me if Mycroft was in danger of hurting himself. – SH

The texts had all been sent the previous night, but the phone call from John was less than an hour ago. There was a brief message, and Greg listened to it.

“Sherlock’s driving me absolutely mental worrying about Mycroft,” John sounded exasperated. “Text him back when you get this, alright?”

Greg smirked to himself, but he was touched that Sherlock actually seemed to care about Mycroft for a change. He fired off a quick text to Sherlock:

Mycroft’s alright for now. We’ll talk more later. – GL

Satisfied with that, Greg turned to the work calls. A few annoyed voicemails later, he was gathering his stuff up and searching for Mycroft.

He found him in the office again, sitting at the desk and talking to someone on the phone. “Hold on a minute,” he said when he noticed Greg.

Greg jerked his head towards the door. “I need to go in,” he explained. “We’re still cleaning up our end of the Eurus situation.”

Mycroft nodded, “I understand.” He paused, and then added more quietly, “Thank you. For staying with me.”

Greg gave him a lopsided grin, “Not a problem. I’ll call you later, alright?”

“I look forward to it.” Mycroft turned back to his phone conversation, and Greg was satisfied to hear that it sounded like Mycroft was requesting time off. He was equally satisfied when he realized the resignation letter had been swept off the desk and into the trashcan.

He left the house whistling.

***

Work was hectic, but by the end of the day Greg could officially say the Eurus situation was out of his hands. He signed the final piece of paperwork and sat back in his chair with a groan, running his hands through his hair and shaking his head to clear the spots of light starting to dance in front of his eyes. He checked his watch. It was nearing ten o’clock at night, and he glanced out his office window, wondering how he hadn’t noticed darkness falling across the city.

Donovan knocked on his door. She poked her head in and asked, “Done yet, sir?”

“Yeah,” Greg stood and stretched, and Donovan walked in and swiped the paperwork off his desk, tucking it under her arm.

“I’ll drop this off to be filed, and then I’m heading out,” she told him. With a pointed look, she added, “You should do the same. You look dead on your feet.”

“I was just leaving,” he said. “Thanks, Sally.”

“See you tomorrow, boss,” she responded.

Greg waited until she had left before pulling out his phone. Sherlock had texted him once, but it had only been to say “thanks,” a miracle that Greg was still marveling over. Somewhere between Mary dying and Eurus playing her games, something had shifted in the detective. Greg just hoped it stayed that way.

There was no message from Mycroft, or from Anthea, whose number Greg had programmed into his phone, and he wondered if it was too late to call. He’d told Mycroft that he would call him later.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Greg dialed Mycroft’s number and began walking out of the office. It rang several times, just long enough for Greg to consider hanging up, and then Mycroft answered, “Hello, Gregory.”

“Hey,” Greg responded, relieved, “I didn’t wake you or anything, did I? I know it’s a bit late.”

“No, I was awake,” Mycroft said. “I haven’t been…sleeping very well lately.”

“What about eating?” Greg asked. “Did you have anything else today? Besides breakfast?”

There was a long pause, and then Mycroft admitted, “I had a piece of toast this afternoon but other than that, no.”

Greg sighed. “Thank you for being honest,” he said. He passed Donovan as he exited the building, and she nodded at him. He gave her a small wave and stepped out into the street. “I’m heading home now,” he told Mycroft. “I just wanted to check on you. Do you think you could eat something before bed? Just something small?” There was another pause and Greg added, “I’m not going to force you. I’m just worried about you.”

Finally, Mycroft said, “Maybe.”

“Alright,” Greg said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, but if you need anything, call me, okay?”

“Okay,” Mycroft echoed. “Goodnight, Gregory.”

“’Night, Mycroft.” The call ended, and Greg sighed. He shot Anthea a text.

What are the odds of convincing Mycroft to go to therapy? – GL

Not great. – A

I’ve tried before. He wouldn’t listen. – A

He needs help. Professional help. – GL

I know. – A

Maybe if you talked to him, he’d consider it. – A

I’ll do that. – GL

Greg sighed again and pocketed his phone. When he let himself into his flat, he couldn’t help but notice how empty it felt. He could have easily fit a dozen of his flat into Mycroft’s house, and yet…

There was some takeaway left in the fridge that was still good. Greg scarfed down the container, stripped down to his pants, and collapsed into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

He woke up eating grey pillowcase. Greg pushed himself up on his forearms, squinting at his clock. The glaring red letters informed him that it wasn’t even four in the morning yet. He slumped back down and probably would have fallen back asleep if his phone hadn’t chimed. That was the sound, he realized, that had woken him up in the first place.

Greg fumbled for his phone, which was just out of reach on the nightstand. When he finally got his hands on it, he had to close his eyes briefly against the assaulting light. The alerts were for a pair of texts.

I’m sorry it’s so late, but you did say I could contact you if I needed anything. – MH

Ignore that last text. – MH

Greg pushed himself upright and dialed Mycroft’s number before he was fully aware he was doing it. Mycroft picked up on the first ring. “I thought I said to ignore that text.”

“You did,” Greg replied. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Mycroft tried to reassure him. “Really, I’m fine.”

“You wouldn’t have texted me if you were fine.”

Mycroft hesitated. Greg could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. “I had a nightmare,” Mycroft admitted.

“Do you want me to come over?”

“No, it’s fine,” Mycroft said. “I just wanted to hear your voice. You…relax me.”

Greg laughed, “I’m glad to hear that. You sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine, Gregory. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“I’m not.”

“Goodnight.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Mycroft.” Greg waited until Mycroft ended the call to lean back against the pillows. His phone found its way back to the nightstand, and he stared up at the ceiling. It was a long time before he fell back asleep.


End file.
